This weather has nothing to do with a coat hanger.
This snow is not the possibility of a strapless gown.
When I redeemed my blood from the blind owl I felt an irritable solution.
An ordinary disturbance supplicated sorcerer’s hair as if the nails of the dead
continued to know.
It was my ultimate discipline to astonish even my practice.
I had forgotten my nerve ganglia, as if I’d stopped at the corner store and
brought home only the milk.
I closed off my ears, heard circles of strong sweet sweat.
Flex my flesh as if my brain was red-gold with OM.
A flourish of snuffling hounds knows fingers and toes and the scent of
swan’s-down vests.
This weather could not, would not, reveal anything resembling skin.
It had nothing to do with ordinary purpose or even with a severe sexual strut.
It rose and fell, came and went, as weathers often do.